Nothing It's been eight straight hours of food and booze of every variety and so I thought I should, perhaps, sit down and write something for this inane site of mine. Except I can't. I have nothing to say. Nothing of interest to anyone, myself included. Like the song says, I can't write what I know, what I know ain't worth writing. In the past I have been pretty good (if I may say so myself) at taking the mundane and spinning a yarn that, at least, seems more interesting on paper that it did when it actually happened. Yet now I find that even that seems like a pointless exercise in wordsmithing masturbation. Remember that "novel" I was working on? Yeah, it's dead, and all I had to do with that piece of shit was make stuff up. I can't even make stuff up anymore. Did I have four straight days of fun activities last week? I sure did, but I can't for the life of me find a way to put any of that into words. I am sure that some would rush to call it simple writers block and hey it happens to everybody. Well, if writers block feels like a giant vortex of creativity in which one is fairly certain that they are, in fact, sucking the creativity out of others and eating like pudding only to shit it out on the sidewalk as they pass by, then I tip my enormous hat to anybody who gets through it and keeps doing anything other than gouging out their own eyes. How do people live like that?
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